quills, fairytales
by folie du jour
Summary: After the end of the fairytale. JS.
1. one

**Disclaimer:** _Labyrinth_ is the property of Jim Henson, Lucasfilms, and other parties. No copyright infringement intended.

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**quills, fairytales**

-one-

_Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen. For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me._

She set down her quill and leaned back into her chair, her eyes shifting from the still glistening ink to the scrawny plume it had come from. The feather was worn, its glossy sheen dulled by diligent use. It had come, sometime ago, from the owl that had frequently accompanied her in her childish plays in the park. Her tenderly made quill, crumbling with every word, was all she had left of it.

She took up the quill again and hesitantly dipped it into more ink. Her eyes scanned the freshly written lines again, stopping at the bottom of the page. Her brave heroine was on the edge of a triumph, having bested the evil villain with her wits and strength; the conquering words first spoken with uncertainty, then with conviction. She turned the page, weary and frustrated. Here, on the last page, was to be the fate of the two characters.

Years ago, she would have written a perfect fairytale—ending spectacularly, and _rightly_, with her heroine at last saving her little brother and defeating the terrible Goblin King and living happily ever after.

But that was not what had happened.

There had been no great triumph over the villain, no fanfare or spectacle. Their last scene together was much quieter, in fact, and very still, like the inside of a broken crystal ball. There was no happy ending, either. For the Goblin King was not as cruel as fairy stories would have people believe, and she was not as naïve. Their eyes met briefly, and she reached out to touch his hand, and grasped only a single feather adrift in the emptiness of his absence. She awoke that night to the petulant cries of her baby brother, securely tucked away in his crib.

She stared blankly at the page, quill clasped firmly in shaking hands, ink running down the side of her wrist.

_I wish…_


	2. two

**Disclaimer:** _Labyrinth_ is the property of Jim Henson, Lucasfilms, and other parties. No copyright infringement intended.

**A/N:** Will this turn into an inter-related drabble series? No idea.

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**quills, fairytales**

-two-

"I wish the King of the Goblins would come and take me away," she whispered. "Right now."

Nothing happened. Sarah unclasped her hands and opened her eyes. The quill fell limply onto the journal and bled out a dark spot on the blank page. She stared at the spot, willing it to grow and grow and grow into a portal that would lead to the Underground. When the spot refused, Sarah flipped the journal shut and turned her head away.

This was not the first time she had tried summoning him. Every year, on the day she wished Toby away, she made a wish.

The first year, she had been merely … curious. The wish was hesitant, on a whim. And when it proved to be ineffective, she was as relieved as she was disappointed. She attributed his absence to his immaturity, his humiliation at having been bested at his own game. And that was … that.

The second year, she had made the wish again. She had no expectations, but … when he did not come, she wondered if perhaps there was something keeping him away. Perhaps the portal from the Underground had broken. Or perhaps he was extremely busy rebuilding the Goblin City. But perhaps he was ill. Perhaps he was in danger somehow. Perhaps he was … dead. She quickly brushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on summoning mild annoyance, because surely he was doing this on purpose, and because annoyance was a much safer emotion than the one that she wanted to replace.

The third year, she had resorted to begging. _Third time's the charm_, she thought. Except it wasn't. And after her wish was met with silence, she began talking, which turned into reasoning, which turned into bargaining and pleading. She imagined that he would be very smug were he to hear her. _My_, he would say in that mocking tone, the one that always made her angry and just a little bit braver, _how the mighty hath fallen_. Perhaps he was not even in love with her anymore, or even despised her, and … and that would be alright, as long as he was actually there to mock her. She fell asleep murmuring her apologies, her regrets, her explanations, her confessions, and still he did not come.

The fourth year, she had been angry. She threatened him. She was in college, she was surrounded by _dozens_ of _eligible_, _handsome_, _charming_, _intelligent_ young men, _several_ of whom had even _asked her out_, and if he didn't come, she would accept the next offer she got! Well, maybe not the _next_ offer _necessarily_, but one of these days she would start dating, and then she would get married and live _happily ever after_, and it would be entirely _too late_ for _his_ _majesty_ the Goblin King. _Well_? She was _waiting_. But his reply never came.

The fifth year had been the first time she cried.


End file.
